


Whimper

by shiftylinguini



Series: Bound [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Mates, Nymphadora Tonks Lives, OOTP Compliant, POV Remus Lupin, Part 2 of Wolfstar Lives AU, Past Hogwarts-era Sirius/Remus, Possessive Behavior, Reference to Sirius/OMCs, Remus Lupin Lives, Rough Behavior, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scenting, Sirius Black Lives, Smoking, Werewolves, ongoing series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: Dora allows it, because she thinks it’s sex. That’s what Remus tells her, tells himself, tries to tell Sirius. It’s physical, and only that, something the wolf needs and needs to take but not something Remus needs, oh no. Remus suspects that deep down ― or possibly not even that deep ― Dora knows that it’s more, knows that Sirius is under Remus’s skin and inside his bones in a way that one fuck a month can’t even begin to sate. But if she has more to say on the matter, she has yet to say it. Remus knows enough about repression to guess that silence doesn't really mean there isn’t something to say, and the weight of that feels heavy enough to bury him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Howl](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9809804). Can possibly be read as a stand alone, but will make more sense in the context of that story.

***

“Well, hello, Moony. Haven't seen you in a while.”

Remus slams Sirius into the wall, grits his teeth. The wall is hard, the brick uneven behind Sirius’s back. He’ll be able to feel it through the thin material of his t-shirt, the worn leather of his jacket. Remus hopes it hurts. He hopes it doesn't. He grits his teeth harder. 

“Steady on, mate. Buy me a drink first, would you?” Sirius sneers, and his voice is mocking. Remus hates him for it, but more than that, he doesn't hate it all. He’s _missed_ it, and isn't that the saddest thing of all? It’s been six weeks, forty two days, the wax and wane of one and a half moons, and Remus has missed everything about Sirius, from his too long hair to his sharp, grey eyes, from the stubble at his jaw to the tone of that perfect, _mocking_ , bastard voice. 

He’s never waiting this long again. 

“Who is he?” he growls, and Sirius blinks, taken aback for a moment, before he smirks. 

“Smell him, can you?” He laughs, a cold biting sound, and Remus wants to shiver. God, how he’s missed that, too. 

“Yes,” he hisses. “He’s all over you,” he adds gutturally, and it’s true. Remus could draw a picture of the man Sirius has been fucking based on that scent alone. It’s a few days before the full moon, but it’s close enough that Remus can probably tell the bloke’s blood type, his shoe size, what the bastard had for breakfast, based on his scent alone. Remus can’t stand it, the scent of someone else’s sweat, their _come_ , on Sirius feels like nails raking down a chalkboard to Remus. It swirls around him like fumes, a perfume so sweet it’s sickening to Remus’s heightened senses. The wolf is whining inside him, a high-pitched and desperate sound ― it’s been yearning for Sirius for weeks, since Remus forced it to weather the last moon without Sirius. It seemed like such a simple idea at the time, an answer to the mess he’s made, but it’s only made it worse. Remus _ached_ without Sirius. 

“Who the fuck is he?” he repeats, focussing on the words, the scent on Sirius's skin, and not on the crawling need inside of him. Sirius smiles humorlessly. 

“He’s no one. A bit of fun.” Sirius adjusts the shopping bag in his hands, the heavy weight of the food inside ― milk, cheese, cigarettes, raw mince; Remus can smell it all ― leaving dents in his fingers. “A guy needs a bit of fun every now and again,” he says pointedly, and Remus tightens his grip. 

“A bit of _fun_?”

“Yes, is there a bloody echo out here?” Sirius shakes his head impatiently. “He’s no one! He left this morning. Not that it’s any of your fucking business what I do.” 

Remus presses him against the wall as hard as he can. 

“Of course it’s my business what you do, you’re my ―” he cuts himself off, breathing rapidly. Sirius stares him down, raising one brow expectantly, but Remus can’t finish that sentence. He shouldn't have said that, and he hates himself for it. He hates himself every time he slips, every time he admits more than he meant to, which is happening more and more frequently now. He's losing control of this, but then again he knows his handle on it was always tenuous as best. He’s been pawing at Sirius’s curtains, his door, since before he even knew he was doing it, chasing the scent of his hair, his skin, amongst borrowed clothes at school. Remus has never had a weak spot like Sirius, never felt anything that compares to what he feels for his friend, his sometimes lover, his ma ― 

Remus shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw. The wolf whimpers inside him, but he can’t admit that last one, not even to himself. He licks his lips, trying to pull himself onto safer ground. It’s harder than he anticipated.

“Of course I care about what you do,” is what he finally gets out, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. Sirius looks away, the barest roll of his eyes giving away that he feels the same. 

“Sure you do,” he mutters, and his expression looks almost sad to Remus, the fight momentarily ebbing out of him. Remus frowns, wrong-footed, but quickly as it came the expression is gone again, replaced by something casual, nonchalant, and cocksure. It’s a mask, Remus thinks, and not a good one. Sirius has always worn his heart on his sleeve, his face an open book, for better or worse. Arrogance, humour, anger and loyalty, Sirius has always been easy to read, and more often than once has that fact come back to haunt him. Remus was always the one with secrets, with things he tried to hide, be it the effect the moon was having on him, or his true feelings. It makes his chest feel tight to see Sirius doing that to _him_ now. He hates that there are things about Sirius now that he doesn't understand, or know. He doesn't know when Sirius started doing it ― it could have been during Azkaban, or when he walked out of the Veil, to Remus’s door, and Dora was the one who answered it. He doesn't know if he has the right to ask. Remus has been keeping secrets his entire life; he knows how hypocritical it is that he can’t _stand_ That Sirius now keeping things from him. 

He steps a little closer, forces his fingers to loosen their grip on Sirius’s t-shirt. The material is creased, stretched almost to the point of tearing by Remus’s hands, and he looks at them in mild alarm. He should be able to control this, he reprimands himself, but he never, never can. 

Sirius looks down at Remus’s hands as well, then back up again slowly. His expression remains unforgiving, and Remus wants to laugh. He’s never met someone who can pull off _disdain_ like Sirius. _“It’s ‘cause he’s an aristocrat, Moony,”_ James used to joke. _“They’re all bred to have those cheekbones, and a nose you can really look down. Isn’t that right, Pads?”_ he’d laugh, dodging as Sirius would try to pull him into a headlock. 

Sirius tilts his head, the movement as effortlessly casual and elegant as anything. He shrugs. 

“Anyway,” he sniffs, “you didn’t turn up last month, so I thought I’d sort myself out while you were busy.” Sirius makes _‘busy’_ sound like a dirty word, and Remus braces for what’s about to come. “You’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment, I know.” Sirius stops, a spiteful glee entering his eyes when he adds, “I thought you and the missus might’ve been painting the nursery. Getting ready for the little one. Can’t be long now until I’m a Godfather again, can it?”

Remus drops his head, shakes it once. 

“Arsehole,” he grinds out, then stumbles backwards as Sirius suddenly lurches forwards. 

“Oh, _I’m_ the arsehole, am I?” he spits, and Remus is blinded by the anger in it. “Me? Not you, with a wife and a baby on the way? Oh no, of course not, not saint bloody Moony, it’s _me_ who’s the arsehole for bringing it up?” He scoffs, laughing bitterly. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

He pushes Remus away easily, and Remus doesn’t try to stop him, shame curdling inside him. 

“You can fuck right off before you judge me, Remus,” Sirius growls, “and take your double standards with you while you’re at it.” 

He shoulders past Remus, up to his door, his boots slapping on the cold stone steps. Remus stares after him, his heart thumping and his chest aching; it’s partly because of the wolf unfurling its claws inside him, but mostly it’s because he knows Sirius is right. For all his faults, his endless, infuriating, beautiful flaws, Sirius isn’t the arsehole here; Remus is a married man, soon to be a father. Of all the terrible things he’s done in his life, he knows that cheating on Dora might just be the worst of them ― eclipsed only by the fact that it’s Sirius he feels like he’s being unfaithful to. 

And that’s the real catch of it all. He’s committed to Dora, in words, in name. He’s got her ring on his finger, and his on hers, and he meant it when he gave it to her, when her told her _‘I do’_. He’s hers in every way he can be ― except the one that really matters. That fell to pieces the moment Sirius stepped out of the Veil and back into Remus’s life. Remus can howl to the moon and back that it’s only physical, that it’s only the wolf that misses Sirius, but he knows what the moon would sigh sadly back at him. 

_You can’t blame me for everything, sweetheart. You did this, all on your own._

Sirius has no idea what effects he has on people, Remus thinks. He never has, not since the first day Remus laid eyes on him. Sirius has been torn from his life twice ― _twice_! ― and come swaggering back into his life each time, his boots leaving messy stains on Remus’s doorstep, his life, his heart. Sirius has no idea what it felt like to lose him, can’t fathom it, and Remus doesn’t know if that’s deliberate. Remus thought the grief of it would kill him, the wolf tearing itself to pieces each moon that Sirius was gone, and Remus barely keeping the man in one piece, too. He tried to build a life for himself, in that gaping absence Sirius left behind, and he fell as much in love as he thinks he’s ever been able to. No matter what Sirius says, what he might think, Remus cares about Dora. He loved her ― _loves_ her. He wanted her, wanted a marriage, a baby, to create something good amidst the chaos and fear of this war, to leave a legacy that wasn’t a haunted shack and a foursome of friends that split itself into murderers and victims. He’s never known which side he’s fallen onto, himself. He thinks it’s probably like all things with him; half one, half the other, his heart perpetually torn between trying to be good and the things inside him trying to claw their way out. 

And all the while, there is Sirius: an ache behind his eyes, a dull roar in his ears, a glorious throb in his chest. There’s a need there Remus can never satisfy, never be rid of. He’s bound to Sirius, and he doesn't know how he would begin to live without him; the past month without him was hard enough. The years he was gone were agony. 

Sirius pauses at the door, searching for his keys. After a moment, he sighs. 

“You coming in or not?” he grunts over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, and Remus hesitates only a moment before climbing the steps after him.

***

Sirius’s apartment is small, sparse. The light is dim, but Remus can see the mess of it, the controlled chaos that he’s associated with Sirius for so long now. There are cigarette butts in the small, coloured glass ashtray, a well-read book by the weathered armchair in the corner. Remus would never admit as much, but he loves this apartment, worn carpet and all. He loves the hap-hazard decoration of it, the feel of it, the things he and Sirius do inside it.

He loves that it smells so utterly of Sirius. 

“So what is it, Moony?” Sirius asks, unpacking his shopping roughly. Cans, soap, detergent ― Sirius slaps them onto the bench, grabbing the pack of cigarettes and toying with the plastic covering. “You don’t come for over a month, and now you show up, what is it, three days before the moon is even due to be full?” He rips at the plastic, pulling it off and easing the packet open. 

Remus breathes in deeply, then stops himself from wincing just in time. Inside him, he feels the wolf bristle. He can smell him in here too, Sirius's bit of fun, the scent coming from the folds of Sirius’s sheets, from the open door of his bedroom. Sirius is right; the man only left this morning. Remus can picture it easily, Sirius’s fingers clawing at the sheets as the man held him down. There’ll be bruises, little crescent shaped half-moons purpling on Sirius’s hips, and Remus feels the jealousy roll in him, as violently as ever. He hates the idea of there being anyone’s mark on Sirius but his own ― and he knows that he has no right to feel that, not while he’s wearing someone else’s ring. The paradox of it makes him feel ill. 

He doesn't how much longer he can do this.

“I thought it would be best for all involved if I gave us some space,” he says dryly. Sirius’s shoulders tense. He snorts. 

“ _'For all involved'_. Very fucking diplomatic way of putting it, mate.” He turns around. “I love the way you say so much without ever actually saying anything at all.” He shoots Remus a look which is half mocking, half invitation, and Remus feels his blood quicken. 

“So,” Sirius tucks his hair behind one ear. “You nobly took the wolf in hand, and one for the proverbial team while you were at it, and kept away. Then what, you thought you’d stalk me outside my house, and accost me in an alleyway?” Sirius laughs, once, a bark of a sound. “Romantic, Moony. No wonder the ladies can’t resist you.” Sirius flicks him another glance. “You look like shit,” he states bluntly, and Remus smiles wryly. 

“I’ve looked like shit for years,” he croaks, and it’s true as far as he can tell. He’s fit enough, for what he is, but his body thinks it’s eighty, his hair greying and his soul a heavy, fractured thing. It’s eating him up, and he knows it, this constant pull between two people, between the wolf and the human. He’s not sure how much longer he can do this, but he doesn't know what else to do in its place. 

Sirius's eyes flash fiercely, and for a moment Remus thinks he’s going to argue with him. Sirius used to hate the way Remus would talk about himself, back when they were younger. _“The scars aren’t that bad, mate. You’re a looker, you should know that,”_ he’d say, the faintest tinge of pink on his cheeks. It took Remus a while to realise what that blush meant, to interpret it for what it was, and do something about it. There’s colour on Sirius’s cheeks now, still, and Remus wants to run his tongue over them, to swallow that ruddy blush whole. He folds his arms tighter over his chest instead, and Sirius huffs a tired laugh. 

“Yeah, well. None of us look that good these days,” he mutters as he pulls a thin cigarette from the packet, raises it to his lips. Remus watches Sirius light the tip with a match ― _“wand’s no good for this, Moony. You’ll have your eyebrows off before you even know it.”_ ― then flicks the little wooden stick onto the bench. The burnt head snaps off, leaving a tiny black dot on the white surface. Sirius turns to face Remus, his back against the counter. 

They don’t say anything for a long moment. Remus stares. Sirius smokes. 

“Those’ll kill you,” Remus says eventually, his senses overwhelmed by the acrid smell of the cigarette. It’s not unpleasant, and it covers the scent of the other man, but it disorients him. Sirius only grins rakishly, exhaling from the corner of his mouth. 

“Nah. Take more than that to finish me off, you should know that by now. I’ll just come back,” he quips, and Remus can’t help it; he flinches. Sirius sees it, and his expression falters. Remorse, Remus sees, as Sirius exhales another thin plume of grey smoke, and maybe Remus was wrong ― perhaps Sirius has learned the effect the things he does, says, can have on those around him. 

Sirius runs his tongue over his teeth, then summons the ashtray towards him. “It’s a filthy Muggle habit,” Sirius says in an imitation of a woman’s voice, the hint of a smile at his lips as he stubs the half-smoked cigarette out. It’s a peace offering, and Remus knows it, accepts it for what it is. 

“Your mother?” Remus asks, standing in front of the opposite counter. Sirius nods. 

“Bless her putrid soul. She used to hate it. _‘Of all the pedestrian forms of shame you could bring on this family, must you smoke like a common Mudblood?’_ ”

“Charming.” Remus can't help it; he smiles at Sirius’s high-pitched imitation, at this nod to the ease which their friendship used to have. “I assume her reaction only made you love it more.”

“Oh, always.” Sirius rests his palms on the bench, tilts his head again. His eyes are slightly narrowed as he looks at Remus. “You should have heard the things she said about you.”

Remus inhales sharply, heat blooming in his chest, and lower. He doesn’t look away, holds Sirius’s shrewd gaze as he measures Remus’s reaction. It’s just like Sirius, he thinks, to use even a declaration of love as a chance to make a hit. Remus can’t blame him; he doesn’t even want to. At least Sirius is able to say it, in his own strange and barbed way. Remus can’t even get the words high enough in this throat to choke on them, too scared that once he starts admitting these things he won’t be able to stop. It’s a valid fear. There’s so much he’s put off saying to Sirius, since that fateful night he thought Sirius had murdered James and Lily, to the night twelve years later when Remus learned that wasn’t true and his carefully crafted world was turned upside down again. 

Sirius has a habit of doing that to him, of disrupting the neat and tidy worlds that Remus tries to build around himself. Remus would be lying if he said he didn’t love Sirius for it ― so he says nothing at all. 

He stares instead at the bare strip of flesh where Sirius’s t-shirt has lifted up, at the curve of his hip just above the low ride of his dark jeans. He can see the slight trail of dark hair on Sirius’s belly, can see the darker shape of a bruise forming above his hemline. Remus can’t tell if it’s from a hand or a mouth ― a kiss, or a bite ― but the sight of it makes his cock thicken further, that familiar possessive desire kicking up inside him. He can hear the wolf growling in his ear, its hackles raised at the sight of another man’s mark on what it considers its own. 

Across from him, Sirius narrows his eyes, his lips tilting into a smirk when he sees the direction of Remus’s eye line. He steps forward, backing Remus up against the counter. The edge is hard as it digs into his arse, and Remus frowns down at him from his slight height advantage. He does it again when Sirius kicks his legs apart and steps between them. 

“What’re you doing?” Remus asks, swallowing thickly at the way Sirius’s scent unfurls around him. His legs bracket Sirius’s, the warmth from his skin coming through the material of his jeans. Remus’s pulse quicken again, his hands itching to touch Sirius, to fit to the shape of his hips, to grip down _hard_. People always consider him a mild-mannered man, but that’s something Remus has been careful to cultivate around himself. He’s careful with Dora, with everyone he’s ever been with, not to be too rough, not to show too much of the animal buried within him, and for the most part it’s easy enough. Easy enough, that is, with everyone except Sirius. 

Sirius smiles again, slow and seductive. 

“I’m doing what you came here for,” he replies simply, his voice pitched low. “Or are you gonna pretend you pinned me up against a brick wall just to chat about my dear old Ma?” 

He runs his hands over Remus’s side, never breaking eye contact, and Remus can feel his body responding. He’s been half-hard since he walked in the door, since before he came here, really. Sirius is right; the moon is well over three days away, and Remus doesn’t usually show up at this time of the month. His stint at staying away was a failure of epic proportions, one that even Dora picked up on. 

She’s no idiot, nothing close to that, and she knows the nature of Remus’s relationship to Sirius. At least, she thinks she does. Dora allows it, because she thinks it’s sex. That’s what Remus tells her, tells himself, tries to tell Sirius. It’s physical, and only that, something the wolf needs and needs to take but not something Remus needs, oh no. Remus suspects that deep down ― or possibly not even that deep ― Dora knows that it’s more, knows that Sirius is under Remus’s skin and inside his bones in a way that one fuck a month can’t even begin to sate. But if she has more to say on the matter, she has yet to say it. Remus knows enough about repression to guess that silence doesn't really mean there isn’t something to say, and the weight of that feels heavy enough to bury him. 

Even more so, his tenuous justification that it’s purely physical doesn’t explain why he’s here, three days before the moon is even beginning to pull him to Sirius’s side, his teeth clenched tight and his fingers curling like claws. 

Sirius steps forward again, close enough to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Remus’s pulse feels loud enough to deafen him, his hands curling around the edge of the counter. He can feel Sirius pressed against him, his groin against his, his chest against Remus’s own. Remus inhales sharply as Sirius drags his hands up his side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, then back down to his groin. He cups Remus through his trousers, his hand pressed tight between them. His eyes are fierce with something Remus can’t quite place. It’s been so long since anything has happened between them that wasn’t a frenzy of torn clothes, a fury of ripped seams and desperate hands scrabbling over fevered skin. Since Sirius came back from the Veil, Remus hasn’t allowed it to be anything else, to Sirius’s equal satisfaction and dissatisfaction. 

This is different, though. The heat between them seems to smoulder rather than burn, as Sirius runs his fingers over the growing bulge in Remus’s trousers, gently easing the button open with slow and careful movements. He never looks away from Remus’s eyes, not when he pulls Remus’s fly down, wraps his hand around Remus’s cock. Remus grits his teeth at the perfect feel of it, fighting the urge to look away. He remembers now why he always waits until the heat and tempest of the moon make it feel impossible to resist; it’s so much easier to hide from Sirius’s eyes, from the reality of what he’s doing, when Remus can bury his face in the wolf's fur instead. 

Sirius runs his fist over Remus, his fingers curled in a loose grip, and Remus shivers. It’s too much, and not enough at the same, and Remus fights the urge to push up into Sirius’s hands. He feels so tightly wound, so turned on by a touch so light, and when Sirius leans forward and kisses Remus’s neck, open mouthed and wet, it draws a moan out of Remus so low and guttural he almost doesn’t recognise his own voice. Sirius does it again, sucking softly at the skin before pulling it between his teeth in a gentle bite. Remus drops his head back against the cupboard behind him, spreads his legs a little wider as he moans. His breathing hitches at the idea of Sirius leaving a mark, his cock twitching in Sirius’s hands. Remus wants that, as much as he wants to wipe all remnants of the other man from Sirius’s skin and leave his own mark in its place. His hips buck involuntarily as Sirius bites down again, harder, his knuckles white as they grip the edge of the kitchen countertop. Sirius’s hair tickles Remus’s chin, and Remus wants to bury his hands in it, to wrap it around his fingers the way he used to. He feels the gust of Sirius’s breath against his throat before Sirius pulls away, running his lips up to the shell of his ear.

“Sirius ―” Remus starts, his voice harsh. He stops when Sirius bites at his earlobe. 

“Shh, Moony,” Sirius murmurs. He pulls at the skin, then releases it. “I’ve got this.”

Sirius drops to his knees. 

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Remus’s mouth falls open as Sirius swallows him down. His mouth is warm, his movements sure as he pulls back, then takes Remus down fully once more. 

It’s been so long since Sirius has done this, and Remus can barely think around the onslaught of sensation. There’s no teasing, as Sirius bobs his mouth around the length of Remus’s cock. Sirius has always preferred a no-nonsense approach to sucking cock, even back when he didn’t really know what he was doing. _Quantity over quality, eh, Pads?_ , Remus used to joke, breathless and flushed, but it was never really true. Sirius was always good at this, always capable of bringing Remus to the edge faster than even he thought was possible. Remus hasn't let this happen, not since Sirius came back. It feels intimate to him, a reminder of what they once had, of all the things he tries to pretend that this thing between them now isn’t. 

It feels almost unbearably good. 

Remus tangles his fingers in Sirius’s hair, can’t stop himself from tightening them into fists around it. Below him, Sirius moans, a loud and heavy sound, then again when Remus pulls at his hair. Sirius has always been tactile, always so responsive to touch and feel, while Remus has always been at the mercy of the scents around him, of the urges he feels. Sirius shuffles closer on his knees, his fingers tucked into the belt loops of Remus’s trousers as he swallows Remus down, upping the pace. 

Remus tightens his hands again, his fingertips running over Sirius’s scalp as he feels his orgasm building. Remus hasn’t had sex in weeks, hasn’t touched himself since the last time he was with Sirius; he hasn’t touched Dora in _months_. He rolls his hips, thrusting into the wet heat of Sirius’s mouth as he feels his balls tighten. He gasps, pulling Sirius’s head back in warning, but Sirius holds fast, swallowing as Remus comes with a loud groan that seems to reverberate right through him. 

“Fuck, Sirius. _Fuck_!”

Remus gasps as he comes, again and again, weeks of pent up frustration coursing through him. 

Sirius stands up quickly, his hands over Remus’s and pulling it between his legs before Remus has the time to register what is happening, He curls his fingers around Sirius’s cock instinctively, pulling at him hard and fast. His hand is uncoordinated, his body still reeling from the force of his orgasm, but Sirius is so close it only takes three strokes before he’s spilling over Remus’s fist, onto the base of his untucked shirt. He buries his face into Remus’s neck, his breath washing over him in hot, uneven gusts as he pants. 

Remus groans again, overwhelmed himself as the scent of Sirius suddenly filling the room. It’s not as strong as he’s used to it being, not as powerful as it is right before the moon when Remus feels like he’s more animal than man, but it’s an intoxicating scent all the same. He was embarrassed, ashamed, when he first discovered how much he liked that scent on him ― on his skin, his clothes, a reminder of what they’ve done. A reminder of _Sirius_. Now, Remus has learned to savour it, to keep it as long as he can before it fades, never knowing when he’ll be around it again. He breathes in deeply, face turned into the soft, thick strands of Sirius’s dark hair. He rubs his cheek against it, shutting his eyes at the surge of pleasure this simple act brings him. Sirius moans, a soft sound of contentment as he pushes back into it.

Abruptly, Sirius stiffens. He straightens, shaking his head as he pulls away, and Remus wants to sigh at the loss of contact. He swallows that down instead, bracing for what Sirius is about to say, but Sirius only picks up Remus’s hand. His fingers are limp as Sirius thrusts them at Remus’s face. 

“You see this?” he says, his voice hoarse and desperate, and the timbre of it pierces through the lethargic haze around Remus’s sex-addled mind. Sirius shoves his hand at him again, and Remus blinks down at it, confused until he sees what Sirius is referring to ― the band of gold on his finger. “Do you see this?” he hisses, and Remus nods, once, reluctant to find out where this is going. They’ve been over this before, a hundred times it seems, but this feels different. There’s something in Sirius’s eyes, something Remus hasn’t seen before. 

“You sort this out before you come here again,” Sirius whispers harshly. He drops Remus’s hand, steps back, and for a moment he looks young again, like the boy Remus whispered the heaviest of his secrets to under the cover of their thick, red bed curtains. Sirius’s face is open, vulnerable, and it hits Remus like a punch. 

“Sirius ―” he starts, but Sirius shakes his head. 

“Sort it out, or don’t come back.” He swallows thickly. “Not like this, anyway.” His voice is quiet, but determined, his jaw set. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m no one’s fucking mistress, least of all yours.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking me,” Remus growls, the anger flaring up indignantly inside him. He pushes Sirius away, roughly doing his clothes back up as Sirius does the same. “Telling me to sort this out, like it’s...” Remus struggles with his fly, unable to finish his sentence. Sirius makes a noise as he watches him. 

“Moony ―” 

“She’s my fucking wife, Sirius!” Remus yells. “I can’t leave her. She’s about to have my _kid_.” He rubs his hands over his eyes, unable to stand the look on Sirius’s face, hating himself for the things he can’t say to Sirius about what he means to him. Instead he grits out, “she’s my wife. That has to mean _something_.” 

It sounds more like he’s asking Sirius for an answer than stating a fact, and that in itself seems as good an indication as any that Remus’s marriage is over. The words burn in his throat as he stares Sirius down. He tries to take comfort in his anger, but the guilt is riding fast on its heels. 

Sirius shakes his head, shrugging sadly. His face looks resigned. “If it does, then you don’t come back,” he responds quietly.

“Fuck, Padfoot!” Remus exclaims, running a hand through his hair as he tries to catch his breath. “It’s not that simple.”

“It _is_ , though!” Sirius retorts. “This,” he waves a hand between them, “is what is complicated, this sneaking around and only fucking me when you’re half out of your head and can say ‘ _oh, the moon made me do it, Pads, this means nothing, but keep the bed warm for me, yeah?’_ Fuck that! You know that is horse shit, you’ve known it all along. And _that_ is the mess.” Sirius takes a steadying breath. “You can’t tell me it feels good to walk out of here and go back to her, you can’t tell me she deserves that. Or that I do, ‘cause it sure as hell doesn’t feel good to me,” he finishes, his voice more honest than accusing. 

“Sirius, don’t...” Remus licks his lips, his anger ebbing away. He tries to cling to it, but it’s like trying to hold a fistful of water; he knows Sirius is right. “Of course it doesn't feel good to me,” he mumbles, sagging as he leans back against the counter. Sirius walks closer, rests his forehead against Remus’s and for a moment Remus thinks he should push him away, but the comfort of it is so strong. This is why he has avoided being around Sirius when the moon hasn’t compelled him to do it, this is what he has been so afraid of. 

That without the barbed words, the insults and the constant cutting jokes, Sirius will force Remus to listen to what he doesn’t want to hear ― and then to act. 

“If it doesn’t feel good, then stop doing it,” Sirius says softly, he runs his lips over Remus’s cheek, not quite a kiss. “Make a choice,” he mumbles. Remus screws his face up, the simplicity of Sirius’s perspective both relieving and maddening at the same time. 

“I don’t think I can,” Remus replies. His voice sounds hollow and strange, the words echoing in his ears. Sirius sighs, then smiles sadly back at him, he pats him once on the shoulder. 

“Sure you can, mate,” he squeezes Remus’s shoulder. “Making a choice is simple, you just have to do it,” he says, that mask of easy confidence falling back over his face. Remus wants to tear it off with his teeth, to force Sirius to show him what he’s really feeling, but he knows he doesn't have the right to do that. Sirius is right; Remus has done this long enough, played this game of tug of war between who he is and who he wants to be. He’s dragged Sirius and Dora along for enough of the ride. 

Sirius runs his hand over his mouth, a crease between his brows. He seems as though he has more to say, but instead he only looks Remus up and down before he turns away. His footsteps are light as he walks into his bedroom, and Remus knows the conversation is over. Sirius has left him with this, this lover’s ultimatum, and Remus knew this was always how this would end. Not with a howl, but with a whimper. Not with teeth and claws, but with soft words, and the inevitable crumbling of this house of cards he’s been struggling to keep upright since Sirius came back. 

Remus pushes himself upright, his feet feeling heavy and leaden as he forces himself to walk to the door, and out into the night. 

Time to pick a side, Sirius is saying, and this time Remus has to listen. Sirius has always known what side he was on, has never wavered in that assurance, even when that side might not have wanted him back. Brash, reckless, arrogant and beautiful, Sirius has always picked Remus, again and again. He knows it should be easy, should be simple like Sirius says, but nothing has ever felt harder. 

More than that, Remus knows what he has to do now. He wraps his cloak around himself, glancing up at the off-white spectre of the moon. He glares at it then sniffs, shaking his head as he quickens his pace. 

He knows what he has to do. What he doesn't know is how to do it.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! Come find me on [LJ ](http://shiftylinguini.livejournal.com/profile/)or [tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard)<3


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